Least Likely to Marry a Duke Page 19

  ‘Because I wish to discuss feelings.’ His voice dropped to a growl. ‘Demonstrate feelings.’

  She leaned down, put her hands on his shoulders and closed her eyes as he took her by the waist. He felt so strong, so steady and, despite her skittering pulse, she felt so very safe. He would not drop her.

  That safety proved to be a delusion, because Will lifted her from the seat, but not to the ground. Instead he swung her into his arms and strode into the cover of the trees where one, falling, had opened up a tiny clearing and the park keepers had set a rustic bench.

  He sat, with her on his knee. Verity wriggled, pushed at his chest.

  ‘Are you afraid of me?’ He was no longer holding her, she realised.

  ‘No.’ She heard the hesitation in her own voice. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But you want to be free?’

  ‘Here, now?’ A moment ago the answer would have been yes. She had wanted a safe distance of six feet or so. ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ Will’s arms came around her again.

  ‘But I should. There is no butler to bring us to our senses here.’

  ‘True. But I am not an exhibitionist by design, Verity. I have no desire to be caught in a passionate embrace by a barouche full of dowagers, believe me.’ He put his hat on the bench and began to nuzzle her neck above the high collar of her pelisse.

  ‘What do you call that?’ she demanded, twisting a little to give him better access.

  ‘If I hear carriage wheels or hoofbeats,’ Will said, his voice somewhat muffled, ‘you will be sitting demurely next to me in seconds.’

  ‘Will!’ It was difficult, but a firm hand on his chest made him stop. ‘That is not proper behaviour for a perfect duke and you know it.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed and set her on the seat although there was no sign of anyone approaching their copse. ‘I desire you and that is something I find hard to resist. I like you. I would like to be your friend. I want to protect you. That is why I came to London. Those are feelings—desire and liking and protectiveness.’

  Verity swallowed. ‘Unmarried ladies are not supposed to be friends with gentlemen.’

  ‘And there I was thinking that the unconventional Miss Wingate does not care about society’s strictures on what she should, or should not, be doing.’

  ‘And I thought you cared too much about how the perfect Duke should or should not behave,’ she shot back.

  ‘Perhaps we were both wrong,’ he said lightly, lifting her hand and beginning to play with the tassels on the cuffs of her gloves. ‘Perhaps you are more conventional and I am more of a rebel than we believed.’

  ‘Friends, then,’ she said. ‘But friends do not kiss like we have been kissing.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘No,’ Will agreed, his face still hidden as he untangled the dangling leather glove-trim that had been knotted by her fall. ‘Friends do not kiss like that.’

  ‘Perhaps that is why unmarried men and women are rarely friends,’ Verity pointed out. ‘Married couples often are, I have observed. Those in happy marriages.’

  Will made a sound suspiciously like a grunt. ‘I have good friends already, male friends. I know what we talk about—and it is not feelings. I know what we rely upon each other for: loyalty, support, to have each other’s backs in a fight. What does a woman look for in her friends?’

  ‘Loyalty, listening, sharing, talking about feelings.’ Will looked up and grimaced and she laughed at him, just a little. ‘I rely on my friends to tell me if a bonnet I passionately desire makes me look a fright and to lend me their last pair of silk stockings because I have been invited to a very special ball. I rely on them to listen and sympathise when I am breaking my heart over some ridiculous man, or I have just been snubbed by an antiquarian who thinks that ladies are only fit to write out labels for his collection of stone arrowheads, not venture an opinion about their origins. I rely on them for comfortable gossip, for bracing lectures when I am feeling sorry for myself, for laughter and shared happiness.’

  ‘Feelings, then,’ Will said ruefully. ‘Who was the ridiculous man who broke your heart? Not the pretty cleric I just met, surely?’

  ‘No, certainly not.’ Why had she lied so instantly, so vehemently? Why couldn’t she have admitted it? All she needed to say was that she had been disillusioned when she had discovered that he was using her to gain her father’s patronage. There was no need to tell Will that they had been lovers.

  ‘He really did not matter,’ she went on, even though she suspected that she was over-explaining. ‘I was very young—but love hurts, doesn’t it? Even when it is only foolish first love.’

  ‘I do not know,’ Will admitted. ‘I have never been in love, do not look for it in marriage.’

  ‘Never? Not even some foolish calf-love?’ He shook his head. ‘And it is very sad that you do not hope to love your bride. Surely that would be preferable to some sensible, chilly, suitable arrangement?’

  ‘Is that one reason why you would not marry me? Because you want declarations of love?’ The familiar wry twist of his lips was back.

  ‘Of course not. I mean...’ Verity searched for the right words. ‘Yes, I would not marry without love, but, no, I would hate it if you had made some pretence of love just to get me to agree.’

  ‘I can understand that, but surely affection would develop with time in a marriage where everything else is right—liking, suitability, mutual respect. Desire...? But love... Love seems to me to be as dangerous to happiness as dislike.’ The warmth that had come into his voice when he spoke of affection seemed to evaporate, leaving her chilled.

  ‘The example of your father and stepmother was not a happy one?’ Verity suggested. That must be the marriage Will would have been closest to. He was very young when his own mother died, perhaps too young to be aware of the relationship between his parents. ‘I thought theirs was a match based on an instant, great love.’

  ‘Instant, yes. One reads about a coup de foudre in novels, but I had never believed in such a thing until I looked back on that marriage. It was all consuming, obsessive perhaps. It certainly excluded everything and everybody.’

  ‘It must have been very difficult for you,’ she said. ‘How old were you?’

  Will shrugged. ‘Nine. I suppose I was like any other child in a household such as ours—I saw more of my nanny and tutors than my parents and I had been an only child. But when my father remarried he and my stepmother spent all their time together and it was strange to see how absorbed they were. I think I might have been jealous.’ He said it almost as a question, as though he either did not believe he might legitimately feel like that or as though he did not understand why he might be so. Verity was not certain which was worse, but she stayed quiet, let him talk.

  ‘But then my half-brothers and -sisters began to be born, the first four, and that was...good.’

  ‘Your father and stepmother were closer to them than your parents had been with you? That must have been your stepmother’s influence, I suppose. She must love her children.’

  ‘Love? I do not know,’ Will said. ‘Is that how parents love their children? They were the outward symbol of the marriage, they were the means by which she could express her educational theories, they were a focus for her intense emotions. Is that love?’

  ‘I do not know. I have never seen her with them. They appear to love her and, surely, every family is different.’ She recalled the stilted confidence he had made to her in the centre of the maze and ventured, ‘The death of your half-sister must have been very difficult for all of them.’

  Will closed his eyes, leaned back on the bench, but his fingers remained loosely around her wrist as though keeping contact with her heartbeat. ‘Yes, it was devastating. I blamed them for it; Claudia, my stepmother, most of all. She believes that willpower, fresh air and exercise will overcome most bodily ills. One of her most
strongly held theories is that it takes strength of will to succeed with all things and that if you try hard enough you will find that strength. She did not recognise how ill Bella was and Bella wanted to be brave, to be strong, to please her. She collapsed, but by then it was too late.’

  ‘Oh, the poor child. And you loved her. You must have been heartbroken.’

  And his stepmother must have been devastated, would have blamed herself. How utterly ghastly.

  ‘She was my sister, I was her older brother, it was my duty to protect her. I was angry,’ Will said. His voice was quite steady, his gaze apparently fixed on the phaeton. ‘I had not been able to do anything, they wouldn’t listen, said I was exaggerating. They both seemed blind. But I was thirteen and I should have known enough, have had enough strength to make my father send for the doctor at least. Or I should have taken a horse and gone myself. But I did not. I failed her.

  ‘The night she died I wrote to my grandfather. He and my father had been on very distant terms since the marriage. I said that my stepmother was an unfit mother. I accused her of responsibility for Arabella’s death, I stated that my father was too weak to see beyond his feelings for his wife.’

  He stopped abruptly, as though recollecting who he was, where he was.

  ‘Go on,’ Verity murmured. ‘What happened then?’

  When Will spoke again it was as though he had replaced the mask of the Duke and pushed away the natural emotions of sadness and anger and frustration. ‘Naturally I should have expressed myself more moderately. I should have taken into account my stepmother’s good intentions and I should have had the determination to have protected my sister. I saw that later. As it was, my grandfather removed me from my father’s control as a direct result and it made the breach impossible to heal, which was entirely my fault. My behaviour was inappropriate and my other brothers and sisters lost their elder brother and what support I could have been to them then.’

  It seemed to Verity that by writing he had acted swiftly and decisively to protect his younger half-siblings and that it had been a brave thing for a thirteen-year-old boy to do. He had been hardly more than a child himself; how could he have stood up to an infatuated man who believed his wife could do no wrong? But Will clearly blamed himself for the total estrangement between the old Duke and his heir as well as failing to secure help for Arabella in time.

  She could point out that the children seemed bursting with good health and spirits now, so perhaps their upbringing had not been so very bad, that perhaps their parents had learned from that tragic loss, but somehow she did not think that Will was looking for reassurances. His instinct to protect, his sense of responsibility, were both very strong and he thought he had failed. To heal he had to forgive himself and Verity had no idea how to help him do that.

  If I could teach him to love, then perhaps he could judge himself less harshly. But I do not love him, so how can I hope to do that? Can it really be possible to be his friend?

  She made some inarticulate sound of frustration and he looked down at her. ‘Verity?’

  ‘Imagine if the same thing happened now, but it was Basil in your shoes and Alicia died.’

  ‘Basil has not had my upbringing.’ Will was frowning.

  ‘No, he has not. He has grown up with all those brothers and sister, like a litter of puppies. They love each other, their mother loves them, their father loved them. He has the confidence to speak his mind, demand what he wants. Ill mannered and naughty sometimes, yes, but he would yell the place down until someone sent for a doctor. You were brought up alone, raised to obey, be dutiful and proper and defer to those who knew best—and that was before your grandfather got his ice-cold hands on you. The two things they did not train you in was disobedience, which is a very useful skill, and loving. For you to have rebelled at all was incredible.’

  ‘You know how to speak your mind as well, that is clear.’ Will stood, took three angry paces away from her, then spun round. ‘Is this what you and your female friends do? Pick each other to pieces?’

  ‘We help each other see the truth. It was not your fault and, even if it had been, whipping yourself for it does no good now. You love those children and you are doing your absolute best for them. I just wish you would be as kind and loving to yourself.’

  ‘That sounds somewhat self-indulgent.’

  ‘It is no such thing.’ Verity refused to back down, even in the face of his most imperious expression. ‘You can learn from what has gone wrong, celebrate successes. It makes you stronger, happier, kinder, I think. It makes you see things in a truer light and helps you see what it is you truly want. What you need. That isn’t selfish.’ She let herself smile. ‘It makes you more pleasant to be with, too.’

  ‘What I need,’ Will said slowly, walking away from her towards the horses. He stopped, back turned.

  Now what is he thinking about? Some other duty he must add to the load he carries around? Some objection to being happy?

  She watched him—no hardship when he made such an attractive study standing there, beautifully cut coat emphasising broad shoulders and tight waist above a length of leg shown off by breeches and boots.

  I could draw him.

  But it would probably lack life and emotion—she was used to drawing bones and broken pottery, not flesh and blood.

  Then Will turned and walked back. Strode back, as though time was of the essence. ‘Verity, will you—’

  He broke off as a group of riders swept into view at a canter, calling to one another. ‘Not fair!’ a young woman in a dark blue habit called. ‘You had a lead, you beasts!’

  The four men in front of her and her three companions reined in, swinging their mounts around towards the ladies, making the greys in the phaeton snort and back up.

  Will ran to the team, caught the bridle of one of the leaders. While everyone was looking at the phaeton, Verity sat quite still, her moss-green walking dress, she thought, must merge quite well with the bushes behind her. One of the men rode up to Will, greeted him. She caught snatches of their conversation. ‘Apologies, Aylsham...didn’t realise anyone was here... Cousin Thea...race...’

  No one glanced towards the bench. Will walked over to the others, raising his hand as though to doff the hat he had left on the bench. There were introductions, some laughter, then the group rode off and he came back to her.

  ‘I do not think they saw me, did they?’ she asked as he came closer. ‘What a relief.’

  ‘A relief?’

  ‘Well, yes. The whole point of me being in London is to kill the rumours about us and sitting on benches in secluded groves with you is hardly likely to help with that, is it?’

  ‘No.’ His smile was the cool ducal social smile that she had learned to mistrust. ‘No, we need to avoid speculation at all costs, do we not? The sooner I return you to Lady Fairlie the better, in fact.’

  Now what have I said to put him in a temper? Verity thought as she followed Will back to the phaeton. Because a temper that was, however beautifully he disguised it. He doesn’t want to marry me. I do not want to marry him. Neither of us wants vulgar gossip and speculation about our relationship.

  She was lifted up to the high seat by strong hands that lingered not a second too long, she noted, even as she was wondering why about her own choice of words. Relationship? Do we have one?

  Will seemed to have all his attention on the horses. Verity studied the severe profile, softened by a sweep of dark lashes, the unexpected fullness of his bottom lip, the tilt of his head as he concentrated. Then he turned, caught her watching him and smiled. Smiled—and a trace of colour came up over his cheekbones before he looked back at the path ahead.

  The realisation swept through her, the sudden solution to a puzzle. I love him. I love Will. Oh, no. No.

  She clutched at the curling metal guard rail beside her. The fine kid of her glove split across the palm and she bit her
lip to stop the exclamation of pain as the thin metal dug into her hand. He did not love her; she would make him a terrible wife, a comprehensively unsuitable duchess. They would fight over everything—and Thomas Harrington would either spend a lifetime blackmailing her or she could defy him and have another scandal added to the name of the Duchess of Aylsham.

  Because Will would insist on marriage if he discovered the slightest weakness in her determination not to accept him. She had held out against his insistence when her feelings for him had wavered between physical attraction and dislike of everything he seemed to stand for. But now, how could she refuse him when it would break her heart? Was breaking her heart.

  * * *

  ‘Verity?’

  She turned to him with a jerk of her head, so unlike her usual grace. ‘Yes?’ A moment ago she had been looking at him, looking as though she had to close her eyes and describe him in detail. He had felt the beginnings of a blush, not of embarrassment, he realised with surprise, but of pleasure.

  ‘Yes?’ No encouragement there, all her barriers were up again.

  Lord, but she was the most provoking female.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Very smooth, Will. Very sophisticated conversation. Well up to standard of a bashful youth confronting the object of his first half-innocent love, in fact. He had lied when Verity had asked him whether he had ever had an attack of adolescent calf-love. There had been the Squire’s daughter in the next parish. She had been eighteen, just out, lovely with all the feminine assurance that left adolescent males floundering like landed fish in her wake. He had been sixteen, uncertain about what he was feeling except that it had been overwhelming. In retrospect she had been much kinder than he had deserved.

  Since then Will had become confident he knew what he was about in the bedchamber. But those other emotions, that breathless sense of anticipation, that intensity of focus whenever the beloved object was near—that was something he had never thought to feel again.